


Please Help Me

by Emmastar1133



Series: Please Help Me [1]
Category: Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Also fluff, Cutting, Depression, Eating Disorders, F/M, Self-Harm, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-19
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-02-21 20:31:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 7,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2481452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmastar1133/pseuds/Emmastar1133
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>First part of the Please Help Me series, in which the reader has a serious problem, and Tom finds out about it.</p><p>Rated T until chapter 5, but eventually escalates to an M rating.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

You didn't know what caused it. The depression. All you knew was that it was there, and wouldn't go away.

It didn't make sense, because you were otherwise just fine. You had a stable job, your family and friends were close to you and all cared about you, and your loving boyfriend, Tom, was the most optimistic person you knew.

But knowing all of this didn't make you any happier.

You couldn't tell anyone about your depression. It had started a few weeks ago, coming out of nowhere, fading for a few days, then resurfacing again. You'd never mentioned it, too afraid of coming off as whiny, pessimistic, and needy. 

After a few days of misery, you cut yourself for the first time. It had hurt more than you'd expected, so you'd stopped for the rest of the week.

But as it got worse, you got more desperate. You'd been thinking about the handful of scars on your wrist, and the more you thought about them, the more you'd wanted to add more. More lines.

Which was what you were doing now.


	2. Bloodlust

It had been a long day, and you hadn't been able to think clearly. You were in a fog, a depression-induced haze. You hoped Tom hadn't noticed.

As soon as you got to your apartment, you noticed a letter in your mailbox. You took it without looking at it, and put it on the table as soon as you got upstairs.

You'd look at it later. Right now you needed something.

As soon as you got to the bathroom and grabbed the razor blade, you got a rush of energy. Something in the back of your mind whispered that this was wrong, that you should put the blade down. You took no notice.

You had developed too much of a bloodlust. This was what gave you emotions again, kept you happy. This was your drug.

•••

After you'd cleaned yourself up, you went back out to the kitchen. Opening the letter up, you smiled to see Tom's handwriting.

'My lovely (y/n):

I would be honored if you would join me for dinner at the Palace tonight at 7.

I await your response,

\--Tom xx'

You snorted. Only Tom would write a letter to someone to ask them over for dinner. (The Palace was your nickname for his house, because the first time he'd invited you over, you'd asked if he lived in a palace. It had been a joke between you ever since.)

You pulled your phone out of your pocket to text him a response.

_You cheese ball. Nobody writes letters anymore._

He responded within a minute.

_I'm doing my part to keep the tradition alive, darling. So is that a yes or a no?_

As if he had to ask.

_Of course it's a yes! Should I bring anything?_

He took a minute to type his response.

_Just bring your gorgeous self, my love. I'll see you soon x_

You grinned, then ran to jump in the shower, realizing you only had half an hour to get ready and get there.

•••

You realized as you were driving to Tom's house that you hadn't planned your outfit out as well as you should have. Yes, your necklace, sleeveless dress, and shoes all went well together. And you looked great. Your only problem was that your wrists were completely uncovered. 

You would have to be very careful to keep Tom from noticing.


	3. Show Me Your Wrists

You stepped onto the front porch of Tom's house, and immediately felt at home. You were about to knock on the front door when it was opened, and Tom greeted you with an enormous hug and a quick kiss.

"You look lovely, darling, come right in, come right in."

You stepped in to his living room as he closed the door behind you.

"Sorry I'm a bit late, traffic was hell."

He laughed his signature  _ehehehe_ laugh.

"No, you're right on time, everything's almost ready. Do you want anything to drink?"

 "Just water, please."

"I'll be right back with that."

You sat down on the sofa, looking around the familiar living room. On one of the bookshelves was your favorite photo of you and Tom, from when you'd first met four months ago. In the photo, you both had your arms around each other and he was kissing the top of your hair and smiling, and you had your eyes closed and were grinning.

Every bookshelf had pictures on it, some vacation pictures, some photos of family members. But mostly pictures of you.

You got up and walked around, examining them, and they brought back memories. You didn't even remember most of the pictures being taken, but there you were, smiling at the camera.

Tom re-entered the room, holding your glass of water.

"Here you are, love," he said as he handed it to you. "Are you ready to eat?"

"Oh, I'm starving. What are we having?"

"Chicken and pasta. I know, it's not very fancy, but it's all I could find in my fridge, I'm sorry--"

You cut him off by kissing him. You both broke apart after a minute.

"It sounds wonderful, Tom," you smiled.

•••

Dinner was delicious. The chicken and the pasta were cooked through just right, and seasoned to perfection. The red sauce was ever so slightly spicy, just enough to compliment the chicken wonderfully.

"Mmm, Tom this is  _perfect_ ," you said through a mouthful of food.

"Thank you, darling. I'm sorry again that it wasn't anything fancier."

"No no no, really, if I were at home right now, I'd be eating Panda Express in my pajamas and watching Sherlock. Without you, I'm an unhealthy slob."

"Sherlock? Which one?"

"With Benedict Cumberbatch."

You started blushing then, and played with your napkin hoping Tom wouldn't notice.

You knew he probably did, and was now saving it for teasing material for another day.

As it was, he merely winked at you and took a sip from his wine glass.

•••

Dinner and dessert had been finished, and although you'd have loved to stay the night, you hadn't reached that point in your relationship yet. Tom was ever the gentleman, and was taking your relationship very slowly. You didn't mind, though, because it was refreshing to know that someone loved you for more than just sex.

You were at his front door again, and your evening together was drawing to a close.

"It was lovely having you over, I always love our time together."

"Aw, thanks Tom. I should have you over sometime soon, return the favor."

"That sounds lovely, my darling."

You held each other's gaze, and you reached up to cup his face with one of your hands. Tom held both your hands in his, leaning in and kissing you, caressing your hands as the kiss grew in passion. He briefly ran his thumbs over your wrists when he suddenly pulled away.

He looked down at your hands, frowning.

"Are your wrists okay? They feel really rough, like they've got cuts on them."

You couldn't meet his eyes. 

"They're fine."

"Are you sure? Can I see?"

"No! Tom, just, just let go, okay?"

Something was wrong here, and he could tell. Normally, Tom was calm and polite. He respected boundaries, he honored people's wishes. But something wasn't right about this, and he needed to know what.

He grabbed your arms, and pulled your hands up so he could see your  wrists. And what he saw scared him.

A few dozen cuts, perfect parallel lines, but fairly deep.

They certainly hadn't been there when he'd seen you yesterday.

"(Y/n)... Tell me what's wrong."


	4. I Wish I'd Known

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is really short, apologies for that. But it's also full of feels for ya!

"Tom, I wish I knew. I wish I could understand, and explain what's wrong with me, have a solution in under an hour. But I can't."

"What can you tell me?"

You'd been escorted back inside to the sofa, and Tom was sitting next to you at an angle so he could face you.

"I don't know, I'm just-- lately something's wrong, I don't feel happy or enthusiastic or optimistic. I'm just depressed, it's like I'm broken--"

"No," Tom interrupted quietly. "You're not broken, and I will do everything I can to prove that to you."

"Tom... I'm not sure if there's anything you can do, I'm only myself again when... After I've cut myself." 

You said the last part as quickly as you could and looked at the carpet.

"Oh, my love, I promise I'll help you through this. I promise you. ...How often have you been, have you been doing this?"

"Only twice, Tom, I'm so sorry, I shouldn't be putting you through this."

"(Y/n)!" Tom said sharply. "Look at me!"

You looked up and met his gaze. His eyes were a stormy blue, his face showed worry, sadness, fear. But also love, compassion, concern.

"Please believe me. I care about you, I want to help you, it's not something you're forcing me into or making me put up with. I love you."

It was the first time he'd ever said this to you.

"I really do. And I wish I'd known."

You weren't sure what did it, but something made your eyes begin to fill with tears. You blinked, trying desperately not to let go and start crying.

But Tom wrapped his arms around you and pulled you close. And you wept.

 


	5. Long Sleeves

Fast-forward two weeks, and you were living with Tom. He'd been checking your wrists without telling you, out of the corner of his eye when you weren't paying attention. But you'd noticed, and you knew right away that if you cut again, he would know about it right away.

The pressure was on. You'd been fine for the last week, but for whatever reason, you just couldn't deny that there was a lost feeling, a feeling of  _giving up--_ And the only thing you could think of to make it stop was cutting.

Your first thought was,  _he can't know._  Your wrists were still (occasionally) being checked over by Tom. You weren't mad at him for this, he wanted the best for you, he really cared about you. But it was making this really hard for you.

•••

"Good morning, hon," you said cheerfully as you sat down at the breakfast bar. "So how did you sleep?"

Even though you'd moved in with him, you  _still_ hadn't officially spent the night yet. You were staying in a very lovely extra bedroom, which was nice, but you were definitely looking forward to waking up next to Tom every morning.

"I slept very well, darling. How about you?" Tom responded, then finished his glass of orange juice.

"Pretty well... I had this really strange dream, though…"

You both talked about your strangest dreams, and about your plans for the day. Tom had a half day of filming to re-do part of a scene, but he had enough time that morning to have breakfast with you.

"…well darling, I have to be off. Have a good morning, I'll be back around 3:45 or so." He kissed your forehead, and went out the door.

Now was your chance.

You waited to make sure he was really gone, then went up to the bathroom. You needed to take a shower _anyway,_ you decided. _It's not like this is the only priority I have._

You took your normal shower, frustrated at being unable to shave your legs and underarms. You stopped the shower for a minute, got out, and searched for Tom's razor. It had to be somewhere…

Finally, you found it in a small drawer next to shaving soap and Tom's deodorant. You felt kind of weird about using his razor without asking him or anything, but you knew you couldn't ask him. He'd taken your razor, to keep you from cutting, and had said it didn't matter to him if your legs were smooth. What mattered to him was your safety. So if you'd mentioned using his razor, he would worry about you.

You turned the water back on, stepping into it immediately as it was still hot.

You were anxious to cut, but weren't going to pass up an opportunity to shave your legs. With legs and underarms smooth again, you looked at your wrists, taking a deep breath. You needed to be careful.  _Stay calm. Stay in control. Don't go too deep._ You pressed the blade to your wrist, and swiped across. You did this until you lost count of the cuts, lost track of the blood. But it was getting too deep...

For a terrifying minute, you almost blacked out, but you regained control, turning off the water and getting out of the shower. Pressing your towel to your wrists until the bleeding stopped.

You would be struggling for weeks to hide this. But you'd needed it. You'd craved the release.

But now you felt guilty, because if Tom found out, you knew it would break his heart.


	6. In Your Arms

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Btw this chapter contains smut, so if you don't like it, then obviously don't read it. Also, this is my first time EVER writing smut, so my apologies if it's rubbish. :)

As it turned out, filming took longer than expected, and then traffic was horrible, so Tom wasn't home until 5:00. You'd been feeling guilty as he texted you, apologizing for making you wait for him to be home.  _You have nothing to apologize for. Nothing, compared to me._

When he walked in the door, carrying a pizza box from the nearby pizzeria, you felt like crying at the expression on his face. He looked so happy to see you, like you'd made his day, just by standing there. You wished you could feel the same way, just from looking in the mirror.

"How was your day, my love?" He asked quietly, walking up behind you and wrapping his arms around you, burying his face in your neck and kissing you.

"Oh... My day was good, it was... Relaxing--" you cut off, distracted by his mouth on your sensitive skin.

He turned you around to face him, pulling you close so your chests touched, tilting your head back so you could look up into his eyes. Something in his expression had changed, he seemed more... possessive, more _dangerous._

And all of your emotions, your thoughts, your worries, were replaced with one feeling. _Lust._

You wanted him, you needed him,  _now._

You pulled his head down low enough for you to kiss him, and kiss him you did. Your tongues were fighting for dominance, while you grabbed at each other, hands everywhere. He pulled away for breath, quirking an eyebrow at you, asking for permission. 

" _Yes,"_ you breathed, and he swept you off your feet, carrying you towards his bedroom.

He kicked the door open and tossed you on the bed, taking off his tie and belt, and unbuttoning his shirt, then crawling on top of you on the bed. "I've waited so long for this," he whispered, eyes closed, smothering your reply in a kiss.

He pushed your jeans and panties off, throwing them over his shoulder. You were wearing his light blue button-front shirt, and it seemed he didn't want to bother taking it all the way off of you. Instead, he just unbuttoned it far enough for him to expose your cleavage completely, kissing it while holding your hands above your head.

He then moved one of his hands down between your legs, almost touching you, but not quite. 

" _Look at me,"_ he commanded, pressing his forehead against yours. You opened your eyes, looking straight into his, his pupils blown wide with lust.

His hands massaged your calves, stomach, and thighs, before finally ghosting over your clit, all the while not breaking eye contact. You gasped at the sensation, eyes half closed with pleasure.

He continued to toy with you for a while longer, until you were on the brink of an orgasm. He moved his head to murmur in your ear. "Come for me, my love..."

You came, hard, and he kissed you with a passion as you shook from the power of your orgasm.

You met Tom's gaze again, ready for round 2...


	7. Of best friends and razorblades

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am so so sorry I took so long to update! Thank you for waiting, I love you all <3
> 
> *trigger warning for cutting!!!*

You woke up the next morning, sore in all the right ways. You were confused as to why you were so warm and comfortable, as you normally woke up chilled, no matter how thick the blankets were. Then you remembered the previous night, and smiled as you recounted a few especially memorable moments.

You shifted slightly and Tom mumbled something unintelligible and nestled closer to you, partially awake. You rolled over and kissed his nose, grinning as his eyes fluttered open.

"Good morning, love," he said quietly, voice rough from sleep.

"Good morning!" You responded cheerfully.

"Darling, what time is it?"

"It's…" you checked the alarm clock behind you. "Almost 7:00." 

He grumbled. "I suppose I should get up, then, and take a shower…" he sighed. "…care to join me?" He continued, looking playful.

You were on the very edge of saying yes, when you remembered what you'd done the day before. When you'd borrowed his razor.

"As much as I would love to take you up on that offer, I really _should_  go start breakfast. Don't you have a meeting today?"

His eyes widened. "Oh, I'd forgotten! Thank you, yes, sorry. Breakfast would be lovely, I'll try to be quick in the shower. Thank you, darling." You exchanged a brief but passionate kiss before he left the room, and you were alone with your thoughts and your cut up wrists. 

You had rolled down the sleeves of the now wrinkled shirt you'd slept in. It was Tom's, so it was almost like a dress on you. It covered your arms and came down to your mid-thighs.

Once you were back in the guest room, you reluctantly pulled the shirt off over your head and tossed it at the foot of the bed, pulling underwear and a t-shirt and leggings out of the dresser drawers and pulling them on, heading to the kitchen while pulling your hair back in a messy braid.

As you finished frying bacon and eggs and were putting them onto plates, a slightly disheveled and scruffy, unshaven Tom strolled into the room, walking up behind you to wrap his arms around you and kiss your neck. 

"Thank you for making breakfast, darling, it smells delicious," he mumbled.

You giggled and turned around to face him, kissing him properly and then leaving him breathless, as you went and sat down at the table, pulling a plate towards you.

With a smile he took his seat across from you, and both of you enjoyed your breakfasts.

You were taken by surprise when Tom invited you to come with him to his meeting later that day.

"Actually, (y/n), there's someone I want you to meet."

•••

As you both reached the doors of the enormous box of a building at which the meeting was located, Tom pulled the door open for you while pulling out his phone to read a text. He responded quickly, paused, and then chuckled.

"What?" You questioned while unzipping your sweater, but he wouldn't tell you what he was laughing about. 

"You'll have to find out," he responded with a wink, and then turned down a corridor. "It's this way."

About halfway down the hallway, he stopped and pulled open another door. You could tell that this was where the meeting was taking place, and you noted that he wanted you to go first, but you suddenly felt shy and gestured for him to be the first one through the door. 

As you followed him into the room, you saw a lot of serious-looking people sitting at a long table. Some had laptops open, a few were chatting with one another, and some were writing in notebooks. All of them had filled out a name tag saying ' _Hello! My name is _____'._ A man whose name tag said David H. looked up and exclaimed, "Ah, Tom, so glad you could make it. Where's-"

"He's running a bit late, he'll be here as soon as he's able. He sends his apologies," Tom interrupted.

David nodded. "Alright, love, have a seat, we should probably get started then."

He addressed the group. "Alright then, I'd like everyone to go around and say their name, introduce themselves to the group please. I'll start, my name is David Hart, and I'll be the director for this project."

The woman to his left spoke next. "Hello everyone, my name is Lorri Zelman, and I'll be the head makeup artist and hairstylist for everyone."

The circle continued until it got to you. Everyone was looking at you, but you didn't know what to say. "Uh, my name is (y/n), and I'm with Tom." You looked over at your boyfriend, and he grinned. "I'm Tom Hiddleston, I'll be playing Alex, and (y/n) here is my girlfriend," he wrapped an arm around you, "just here to support me." He looked to his left at the young woman speaking, who introduced herself as Rachel, when the door to the hallway opened and in stepped none other than Benedict Cumberbatch. 

You sort of froze up, which you were almost certain Tom could feel, and if you didn't know better, you'd swear he was trying not to laugh. 

"I'm truly sorry I'm late, really, traffic was terrible, goodness. I'm sorry everyone," Benedict apologized all in one breath as he sat down in an empty seat at the table.

Rachel continued to introduce herself, saying she'd be playing Madeline. Everyone else finished their introductions, and the meeting began. It was basically just a discussion of a movie project where the actors who played the main characters would also be writing the script. This meant that for auditions, not only had they needed to act very well, they had also had to write a submission.

The director, David Hart, would be writing the script as well, and editing everything together smoothly, but it was really a big collaborative project, and it took a lot of talent to be chosen for it.

The meeting covered basics, like the general plot and how to submit your writing, but also information about filming, such as when to show up and all of those important things.

You weren't really listening, you were mostly focusing on the fact that Benedict Cumberbatch was in the room. _Benedict Cumberbatch._ Andyou were almost completely certain that this was the only reason Tom had brought you with. See, Tom had noticed you blushed whenever Ben was mentioned, and you were obssessed with Sherlock and all of the many other projects that he'd been in. Tom wasn't jealous, he knew you loved him, and that you were merely a fan of Ben. However, he found it amusing that his best friend was one of your idols, and you just _knew_ that he was teasing you by bringing you with him to this meeting.

As the meeting was wrapping up, everyone began standing up to meet each other properly, starting small conversations. Tom, however, was pulling on his jacket.

"So, my place then, yeah?" He asked someone over your shoulder, and a baritone voice directly behind you responded, "Sounds good."

You spun around to see Benedict standing directly behind you, shrugging on a light coat. He held out a hand. 

"Hello, I'm Benedict Cumberbatch. You must be (y/n), Tom won't shut up about you," he says with a grin, as Tom shoves him playfully.

"Hi…" You nervously shake his hand, worried that your palms are sweating or that you'll faint. Kind of a bad first impression.

Tom is very obviously trying not to laugh at this point, looking anywhere but at you, with the corners of his mouth twitching.

Benedict is either oblivious to your awkwardness, or is just gracefully ignoring it. 

"Is there any chance I could get a ride with both of you? Only I took a cab to get here, so-"

Tom cuts his friend off. "Sure, man, yeah. We've got space." He nods with a smile and heads to the door, holding it open for both you and Ben.

You don't say much during the car ride back to the house, other than answering a few questions occasionally posed at you, perfectly happy to just listen to Tom and Ben politely arguing over a book they've both read recently. 

As you pull into the driveway of Tom's house, Ben goes to the front door (he has his own key), and Tom opens the door to the backseat you'd taken for the ride home (Ben was much taller than you, so you figured he deserved the legroom he'd get if he rode shotgun). As you step out of the car, Tom stops you from going to the house right away.

"Hey," he pulls you close and looks down into your eyes. "I know you're nervous. But just be yourself, and it'll be fine, I'm sure both of you will get along really well. He's here to talk about the script we've both been given, but I'd love for you to stay with me, talk with Ben a bit, he's wanted to meet you since I first mentioned you. Are you ok with that?" He says, and kisses you for a moment.

"Just be myself?"

"Yes," he says seriously. "I love you for who you really are and I know he will too."

Your next thought was barely voiced, you murmured it so softly and quietly, but you realized after you'd said it that Tom could hear you, "But what if _I_ don't love me for who I am…"

His eyes widened and he frowned at you, his grip tightening on your shoulders as he opened his mouth to say something, but he was cut off by Ben walking back over. 

"Hey, Tom? I'm sorry to interrupt, but my key's not working, could I use yours?"

"Yeah," Tom gave a glance back at you. "That's, um, yeah, I'll be right there…"

•••

The rest of the day passed too quickly, as you opened up to being around Ben and chatted normally with him, eventually getting him started with stories of Tom as a college kid. By the end of it all, as Ben left for home, you were confident you could now call him a good friend. 

But as the day passed, you had a nagging suspicion that Tom was going to talk with you about what you'd said earlier, just before going inside. You regretted saying it; it wasn't as if it wasn't true, you _didn't_ really love who you really were, but that didn't mean you had to confess it to Tom. He'd thought your depression had cleared up, but that wasn't how your depression worked. You knew all too well that if you kept trying to bottle it up, the pressure would become too much, and you'd take it too far. You hoped you would be able to control it, but you really didn't know. You just hoped you wouldn't kill yourself.

As it turned out, you were right. After Ben had left, Tom was doing dishes in the kitchen when he'd called your name. "(Y/N)?"

You mentally braced yourself as best as you could, then made your way into the kitchen. "Yes, darling?"

He pulled off the rubber gloves for dishwashing and pulled out a stool for you at the counter. You sat down, and he took the stool next to you.

"Are you okay?"

You picked at one of your nails. "I'm fine."

"No. Do you really not love yourself? Is there something you're not telling me?"

"Really, Tom, I'm okay."

"I'm sorry, my love, but I find that a bit hard to believe. People-"

"Don't worry about me!" You interrupted. "I'm really completely okay, I'm sorry I said what I did earlier, I didn't really mean it." You moved to leave the room, but he was blocking the doorway before you reached it.

"People don't say things like that about themselves unless they're serious. I don't think you were just kidding, and it worries me. I can't-" You made a sound, as if to interrupt, but he held a hand out to silence you. "I can't make you tell me anything, darling, but I hope you know that I'm here for you, no matter what. I love you, no matter what happens. And I want to help you and support you through everything you do."

For a second, your eyes filled with tears, and you thought Tom noticed, but before he could do anything else, you'd ducked under his arm and out of his reach. You'd almost expected him to chase you, and almost wanted him to catch you, but all you heard was a sigh.

•••

When you woke up the next morning, you snuck out of bed without waking Tom up and took your shower. You felt an odd sense of excitement that you knew where his razor was and that you had the freedom to cut again.

And so you emerged from the shower with clean hair and skin, smooth legs and underarms, and wrists with lines on them, beaded with scarlet.

Tom woke up and heard you in the shower, unable to shake the feeling that something was off.

He remembered the conversation he'd tried to have with you the day before, and how you'd tried very hard to avoid it.

While you were doing your hair, he knocked on the door and opened it, taking you by surprise. 

"(Y/N) darling, I'm sorry for the argument we had yesterday. I realize I may have come off as someone who worries too much about you, but I really hope you understand why."

"Oh, no, Tom, you're fine, I was just stressed yesterday, I'm really sorry for making you worry so much," you responded, smiling and kissing him.

He quickly took his shower and got out again, whistling. You were in the bedroom surfing Tumblr when he suddenly stopped.

Tom approached you slowly as he walked into the bedroom, like you were an injured animal. The look on his face was not fear or concern or sadness, rather a mixture of the three. He took your hands in his, his eyes meeting yours, then gently pushed your sleeves back, letting out a breath and his expression draining of emotion as his hands came into contact with your wrists and you flinched away. He looked down at his now red and partially blood covered hands, then showed you his razorblade. Which you hadn't rinsed properly. It still had blood on every blade.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> omg what have I done ;-;
> 
> I'M OKAY YOU GUYS
> 
> SERIOUSLY
> 
> I don't know why I write these things.


	8. Therapy and Lies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (Finally! An update! It's spring break for me right now so I'll be able to write more over the next week.)
> 
> So in this chapter, Tom tries to get help for the reader, then he has to go do filming abroad for 10 months, leaving his girlfriend alone at their house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Adj.) is just an adjective, whatever word you'd use to describe your eye color, skin color, hair color and length, etc.

* * *

 "(Y/N), I don't want to force you into anything, so I'm giving you options here. You get a choice."

Tom looked seriously into your (adj.) eyes.

"Tell me truthfully what's going on. Help me to help  _you_. Or, we go to a therapist, or a counselor."

You buried your face in your hands, feeling like a small child that had been caught breaking the rules. "It's- this isn't what it looks like…" you trailed off weakly.

"So what is it  _really_ then?" He gently pulled your hands away from your face, tilting your chin up so you could meet his gaze again. "I love you, I love you  _so much_ , but I _worry_ aboutyou! I don't know for a fact that you won't kill yourself! And I'm sorry, but promises aren't enough anymore! I just… I want you to be safe. I want to protect you, to hold you in my arms for the rest of our lives, to make sure everything's okay, to reassure you and guide you. But I just can't _be_ there all the time!" He said desperately. 

Your eyes fluttered shut as you looked down at your bare feet, breaking eye contact. Tom heaves a sigh. "Darling, I need you to choose," he says quietly.

"I don't- I'm not-" you broke off, took a deep breath, and started again. "Tom. What can anyone do to help me?"

"I don't know yet, but we need to find out."

"I guess I'm seeing a therapist then."

"I guess you are." He responded, wrapping you in a bear hug.

 

* * *

 

12 weeks later, and you were on antidepressants. Your depression seemed to have stabilized, and you were feeling like your happy, original self again. You had to keep two journals, one that was personal and only read by you, and one that was reviewed by Laura, your therapist. At first it had seemed stupid, but now you tended to pour all of your emotions into your writing, spending hours at a time writing everything you thought of.

Tom was truly happy that you'd found a way to vent everything, but you began worrying that it wouldn't last forever. You were slowly but surely building up a tolerance to the antidepressants. They weren't lasting as long and you would sometimes have to take extra dosages. 

You'd also developed insomnia, and were on sleeping pills. These you weren't building a tolerance for, and for that you were grateful.

And then the inevitable happened. Tom was filming abroad. He would be leaving for 10 months, before coming back to start his project with Ben.

You saw him off at the airport, promising each other you'd text and Skype whenever you could. You knew he was still worried in the back of his mind that even though it had been 4 months, you would revert to cutting again while he was gone. So you promised yourself you wouldn't. _I'm_ _stronger_ _than_ _that_. 

You smiled and waved until he was out of sight, before your face fell into a frown. You were up to the maximum amount of pills you could take per day without intoxicating yourself, and it wasn't enough. 

When you got home, you decided to stop taking them. You'd built up a tolerance, you needed to pull away from the medication for a while so that you could go back to it eventually and have it work again. It seemed like a good plan.

So, throughout the next month, you lied. You lied and smiled at everyone, showing them what they wanted to see.

You told your therapist that you were on your meds and they were working perfectly.

You told Tom not to worry about a thing, and showed him your perfectly clean and clear (adj) wrists.

You lied to Ben, even, when he occasionally checked up on you for Tom, until both of them were convinced enough to stop feeling obligated to babysit you.

But you stayed true to your word, so far as not cutting, because you'd found a different kind of pain. 

Hunger.

You stopped eating food and only ate the bare necessities, drinking lots of water. You took lots of vitamins and ate almost exclusively celery, having one meal a day and sleeping as much as you could. You had an alarm set for when Tom would Skype you, making sure you woke up half an hour beforehand and made yourself look healthy and normal before he saw you.

And as a pastime, you wrote in your personal journal. The only place you felt you could tell the truth.

You wrote about meeting Tom, and how lovely he'd been. How he'd noticed you jogging by the set he was filming on every morning, without a chance to say hello, until one day you'd dropped a pair of sunglasses you'd been wearing. He'd stopped you the next day to give them back, and you'd been astonished that Tom Hiddleston was actually TALKING to you. But you'd kept your cool, and eventually you wound up in a relationship. He was the most loving, caring, compassionate, kind, enthusiastic, supportive, gentle, handsome, clever man you'd ever met. You still didn't know what you'd done to deserve such a wonderful man as your boyfriend.

As you wrote in your journal, you mentioned cutting, how you craved some sense of power, how you needed it so you could feel control. 

You confessed to skipping out on your meds, and recently taking extra sleep pills to sleep through how hungry you were.

And you wrote the most recent thought you'd had.

Suicide.

Your depression was reaching a peak again, and you had enough pills in your nightstand to do it.

But could you really kill yourself?

You tossed and turned, taking a pill and falling into a dreamless sleep.

 

* * *

 

Tom called you the next day at three in the afternoon, waking you up and surprising you, since he normally skyped you at eight or nine-thirty. As soon as you woke up, you hastily answered the ringing phone on your nightstand.

"…Hello?" You mumbled groggily.

Tom chuckled. "I'm so sorry, were you asleep?"

"Mmm..." Your eyes tried to adjust to the sunlight coming in through your window.

"I called because I have free time at the moment, but if you'd like, I can call back later."

"No, 'sfine, I should get up anyway…"

"Are you sure?"

"'M positive." You yawned.

You could tell Tom was smiling. "Alright. Well, good news, we're very far ahead of schedule. We should wrap up about a week early."

"Oh, hon, that's great," you said, trying to be enthusiastic, even though on the inside you had just realized, _as soon as he gets back_ _he'll see how thin I've become_.

"I've got a surprise planned for you once I'm back, that weekend. But I don't want to spoil it, so that's all I'll say." He sounded mischievous. Just then, you heard someone calling in the background. Tom called something in response, then came back to the phone.

"Sorry to cut this short, darling, but I have to go now. I love you very much, and I'll see you later tonight."

"I love you, Tom. See you then."

And with that, the call was ended.

You tried to go back to sleep, but couldn't find a way. So you got your journal out and tried to think of something to write about. 

Eventually you settled on doing a drawing on one of the last pages. You closed your eyes and drew what felt natural. Lines. Lines, lines, lines.

After a while, you realized you were going through the motions of cutting, one vicious swipe at a time. So you tried to draw it better, make it more satisfying. You drew your wrists, then made the tens of dozens of cuts on them, feeling oddly calm throughout the entire thing. It was strangely relaxing.

And then the words. You scrawled them in the margins, every stray thought that crossed your mind. "Not good enough. I try to give up, but I can't. I've given up giving up. How can you love me? Why do you love me? How can I end this? Can I? Will I?" Until, slowly but surely, hunger made you too weak to write anymore, and you fell asleep with the pen still in your hand.

Your alarm didn't wake you up that evening.

Neither did the sound of Tom calling you on Skype.

What woke you up was your doorbell early the next morning.

You were barely able to stand up, and when you did, walking seemed impossible. Thinking back on the previous day, you hadn't eaten at all. You slumped against the wall as your head started to feel numb, before you blacked out.

 

* * *

 

"(Y/N)? (Y/N), look at me. Open your eyes. Come on, sweetheart, please do this for me." A deep and familiar voice, but it sounded like you were underwater. You tried to force your eyes open, but breathing was your main priority, and it was taking most of your energy. A large, slightly rough hand gently pushed your (adj) hair off of your forehead.

As you gathered your strength and pushed your eyes open, they were met by startling bright blue ones.

Benedict. He had a house key, and after you'd missed the call from Tom last night, he must have been asked to check up on you.

"Can you sit up? Are you alright? Are you sick?"

He hadn't noticed just yet how much thinner and paler you were than you had been when he'd last seen you.

You tried to talk, moving your mouth with no sound coming out. Ben went to the sink, got you some water, and gently tried to help you to get some of it down. He put a hand to your forehead.

"Oh, you poor thing, you're freezing. Let's get you put to bed."

He picked you up and carried you, like a ragdoll, back to Tom's room. He didn't seem to notice how lightweight you were, and if he did, he didn't comment.

"Now, can you tell me what's wrong? Tom's really worried about you, and you don't look like you've been outside at all since he left. I know you don't go out much normally, because of paparazzi, but honestly darling, you look a bit ill."

You thought about how to respond carefully, before simply saying, "I'm fine, just a bit of trouble sleeping."

You knew simply by looking at his face that he was not convinced.

"I hope you're really telling the truth, miss (Y/N). For now, I'm going to get you something to eat, and then I want to hear how your meds are going for you."

He came back up a few minutes later, frowning.

"(Y/N)? Where are you hiding all of your food? All I found was celery and some rice cakes."

You desperately tried to think of an excuse, but your brain wasn't functioning at full capacity. Ben looked a bit suspicious, but just said "Back in a bit" and left to get lunch.

20 minutes later, you had eaten the bare minimum of food that Ben would let you eat, and you were stuffed. You weren't used to eating this much, and you felt a bit sick.

He asked you about you journal, and how your meds were going. You'd stopped seeing the therapist as often, going in once every two months for checkups. Apparently your lies were satisfactory, because Ben left shortly after you both finished lunch, without asking any further questions.

As soon as he was gone, you raced to the bathroom, losing everything you'd just eaten. You weren't trying to be sick, you just weren't accustomed to eating proper meals anymore.

 You felt terrible. It was right about then that you realized what you'd done, what you had been doing. _This is all my fault. I'm_ _being a drama queen, I have_ _problems, but Tom is only going to suffer because of me. I can't keep doing this._

Your head was pounding. You fumbled with your phone for a minute before unlocking it and finding Tom's number. You typed out a text.

**Thomas,**

**I love you. I hope you know that.**

**I don't want to hurt you, but that's all I seem to be capable of.**

**Something's wrong with me, and I don't know what. But I don't want to drag you through dealing with all of my problems.**

**I'm sorry for ending things this way. I'll get all of my things out of your place before you get back, I'll stay out of your way.**

**I'm doing this because I want you to be happy. I love you, Tom.**

**This is goodbye.**

**-(Y/N)**

You hit the 'send' button before allowing yourself time to reconsider. You shut off your phone, not wanting to know whether he saw your message right away or not. You knew he'd try to call you or connect with you somehow, beg you to reconsider. But you couldn't let him. Once you did, he'd melt your heart with those big blue eyes, and you'd go right back to hurting him again, unable to pull away from him, but unable to pull away from your problems.

And if you did what you were telling yourself you would, then, soon, it really _would_ be goodbye.

* * *

Tom got the text you sent him that afternoon. He was joking with a costar when he got the text. Pulling away from the conversation, the smile drained from his face as he read the words you'd sent.

He tried to call you, eight times in a row. No answer, no response.

Later that day, Ben came by to check up on you. The house was empty. You'd taken your possessions and left without a trace.

You had left him, wanting him to be happy. But Tom had never felt so alone or helpless in his life.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm already working on the next chapter! I'm sorry for the cliffhanger, but I couldn't resist. I promise to make Tom happy again.
> 
> \--Let me just say again that I don't have serious problems that anyone should be worried about! I write really depressing stuff like this because it's a way for me to vent, stories like this can be therapeutic in some ways.  
> However, if anyone needs to talk, I will always listen.  
> x


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